


Fair Trade

by hotlegfryegg



Category: VALORANT (Video Game)
Genre: Angst, Dubious Consent, F/M, M/M, Multi, Non-Explicit Sex, i am in rarepair hell and you are coming with me
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-30
Updated: 2021-01-11
Packaged: 2021-03-10 21:47:45
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 9
Words: 3,046
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28424211
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hotlegfryegg/pseuds/hotlegfryegg
Summary: Some things are best left done in the dark.
Relationships: Breach/Cypher (VALORANT), Cypher/Brimstone (VALORANT), Cypher/Nora (VALORANT), Cypher/Phoenix (VALORANT), Cypher/Phoenix/Sova (VALORANT), Cypher/Reyna (VALORANT), Cypher/Sova (VALORANT), Cypher/Viper (VALORANT), Phoenix/Sova (VALORANT)
Comments: 12
Kudos: 73





	1. Self-Preservation

He always gets lost in moments like these, caught adrift in time. A touch, a pull of fabric, the serrated drag of teeth across tender flesh—he could almost claim it’s Nora, like that night in Delhi. In that hour he is still young, still whole, still happy to be starving and chasing a woman’s laughter.

The teeth close around the junction of his shoulder and Aamir gasps, back arching, and suddenly it’s far too heavy, too sturdy and heady all at once. It’s not a woman’s legs that cage him in. Not at all, in fact, and perhaps he’s a little embarrassed to have been so caught up in memory when the body against his is so…

different.

Pretense lay under the pile of clothes at the door. A beret and a mask have been traded, equivalent exchange for the naked shame of histories that were better left unspoken. Aamir could promise that neither was thinking of the other during these visits, and that suited him well enough, but his wrists were still held so tightly—did the captain think he would run? Why would he? Or perhaps, it was to keep the captain himself from running?

It’s pressure. Pressure without pressure, two broken men chasing the weight of someone else’s body to bottom out on the shelf of their hips so they can pretend this corporate war was worth their time and money. Rank is gone, knowledge is nothing, love lies in the grave with Nora. He is not held by the hands of a forgery artist, the callouses are too much like those of a soldier, and as a bristle of a beard scrapes across Aamir’s collarbone he swears he can taste gunpowder and paint.

Were his hands freed, rather than pinned to the mattress, he thinks he might cling like a man drowning.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh, I'm sorry, were you expecting context?


	2. Rehearsal

At first, like any other bedfellow the young man might take, Aamir fully expects his guest to be boisterous in bed. Obnoxiously loud, an entertainer, seeking accolades for his mediocre sexual talents. The spitfire is invited in with the full expectation to bore him out of his mind.

What a surprise it was, to see such a confident and outspoken man fumble in this endeavor. The way fingers shake, the way speech halts and stammers and hardly a word escapes unscathed--it becomes so much more obvious of the fear carried on tense shoulders, to have this secret uncovered at long last as though the answer would escape the walls of Cypher’s quarters. Of course he’s never done this before. He’s never been _allowed_.

This sort of thing has been legal for decades by now in most countries. That doesn’t mean everyone is happy about it, and even for those indifferent, some opinions change when reality gets too close. Being such a prodigy, the little lord was under constant scrutiny in every aspect. His romantic life would be no different. Maybe another family would have understood, but this boy was to be plucked from the stars themselves, bred and coddled and paraded and fully expected to make _more_ little stars. A boy became a man, and Aamir had seen the way that embittered man would scowl at mother’s face on the television, would shut off tabloid shows and tear apart magazines. For some reason, it never quite sunk in until now.

What better place to ask him for a heaven never seen, than as far from the ground as possible? 

Pity, he decides, is why he indulges himself to shelter his partner. His touch is gentle, unshaking, steady, like the praise Aamir whispers as he teaches this new dance. Stammering is met with affirmation, trembling fingers are threaded into a confident hand and pressed into the sheets to show that this is wanted, this is allowed. Gifted as he knew he'd be, the stiffness of rehearsal is lost with each motion, becomes natural and effortless and understood. And when his partner comes undone, it’s a masterpiece none of his cameras could hope to capture true.

Adoration must be taught before it must be earned. The next time his student knocks, he won’t be so nice.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yeah, still no context.


	3. Feast

For every equal, there is an opposite. And she is his.

Where he stands in the light, she is one with the dark. He is a negotiator, she is uncompromising. And where he takes into his bed with a wariness that shields any emotion, she gives everything in search of a feast. Success is found when he cries for more.

She is a knife unsheathed, a beast of the canyon whose heart was a hungry void. This is the kind of woman who has learned to love the worst, in order to never love at all--and who can fault her? Who is he to blame, to doubt, to do anything else but beg (for mercy? For none? He’s pretty sure he’s stopped making words regardless). The angle of her hipbones over his lay like the points of canine teeth. He is a lamb setting his head in her jaw, trusting as if she won't bear down deliciously until she tastes her victory.

This is so far from Nora, so away, much more than anyone else because everyone else he's ever slept with has played by the rules. Love lies buried for everyone but his vampire, who has twisted it into an obsession to be hunted for sport. Honeyed words drip from dark lips that ghost with fangs over his fingers, his cheeks, his mouth, and lower to leave a trail of bruises no one else will ever see. Nothing is safe, nothing is sacred but the animal act. He is being consumed, and later he might think it’s the first time he didn’t think of his late wife in bed.

But that is  _ later _ . For now, the tallies down his back, clawed ownership from the empress, sting under the tongue of his vice. Every inch of him, body and soul, is demanded with no hope of sparing a morsel. He is a negotiator, yes, but none will leave the table until the queen is sated.

She will crave Aamir until he is bled empty, and covet him until he is full.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hmm, no context here.


	4. Level

Unlike the feral hunger of something truly wild, the hunter walks with the swagger of a beast that knows its power. There is hunger, but it is controlled. Wielded, even. But nowhere near tame. Even in a domesticated animal, instinct reigns. All that changes is knowing when to bare fangs.

The conditions that were set made Aamir cackle, not because of what, but _why_. Face to face, and an exchange of hands only. To anyone else, maybe, this would be distrust. To him? It is high praise, and he accepts without hesitation.

The hunter wants to respect, to honor, and to challenge. To look a beast in the eye is to be its equal, and so they are as one in all things, legs overlapped in symmetry, hands moving in tandem. Joined at the forehead, when one smiles—the challenge accepted—so does the other, lips bitten and kissed raw.

Aamir has been a shelter, been a teacher, been a servant, and all were fine, but this is the first time outside of his marriage that he’s been an _equal_. 

Theirs are the rough hands of survivors. They are both the eyes unseen, the voice unheard until it is too late. They fight with an elegance that comes earned through respect for their prey. And here, they both move beautifully together to chase release in perfect unison.

He thinks it’s the closest thing to love he’s felt since Nora.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> No, no, no context here either. Huh.


	5. Hollow

Some use sex as an antidote to boredom. Others use it to ward off stress, falling into beds instead of breaking points. And others still, rarely, use it to express where words so often fail. Love. Jealousy. Anger.

Grief.

It is unseasonable for her to seek anything but the unknown. And yet she comes to him, head bowed, with no sharp tongue left to so much as throw shadows. Her barbs are gone, her shoulders curl inward like a wilting flower that furls in on itself, a last embrace before a lonely death. There are no rough edges to smooth, nor strength to be contested. She does not come to explore or experiment. No, she knows exactly what she will find here.

She has come to tell her truth, and so, he lets her in.

There isn’t a need to speak, so nothing is spoken. Everything they need to communicate is spelled out across their bodies. He holds her with a tenderness neither of them deserves, and she kisses him so softly he almost stops to ask the wrong question. 

Because it  _ is  _ her. This is the page torn out of the ledger, where the ink has become illegible with tears and time. And he knows it’s her, because it's him. They are here to grieve the parts of themselves torn asunder by their own hands, to worship their own self-fulfilled prophecies and build a temple to every lost lover and dead friend. Loss is home. It is a helpless, consuming tide of muddy water, and it's the only place where she can't hurt anyone.

What is a viper without venom?

A woman, naked and tired and afraid of the dark.

He pulls the sheets over them both, no resolve found because there is none to find. They don’t sleep, and they don’t talk, choosing instead to simply hold close--that’s all they can do for now, to lay in the arms of the monsters they hide from.

The only comfort he can give is the knowledge that he’s scared, too.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oooh, fresh outta context!


	6. Arrest

Oh, Aamir is a rat and a thief! He is a scoundrel, a scavenger, he leaves his greasy fingerprints over everything he touches. All he knows is how to take—he is a petty criminal of the worst degree.

He is also currently _getting the living hell railed out of him_.

All the others before now were polite enough to ask for permission, but here he is given no such courtesy (although for this one? He would have said yes to almost anything). This is punishment for every bolt, every wire, every kiss he’s stolen—if all he knows is taking, he must learn what it is to be taken. Who better to teach him than his favorite victim?

Steel arms have ripped his latest prize straight from his thieving fingers, bent it around his wrists and effectively stapled them to the concrete wall above his head with the kind of force that made his knees weak to watch. Those inhuman hands were free to grab his waist and brand him with ten perfect bruises and Aamir can do little more than drool... not that his jailor can see past his mask, but it’s the _erasure_ of thought that counts. Rest assured, to steal (again) a page from the younger agents’ book: “head empty”.

The swede doesn’t pretend to care for the long arm of the law. No, the man believes in raw justice, an eye for an eye, and if those hips keep slamming against Aamir like that, “justice” might just make him believe in god again. Justice is swift, rough, deep and _excellent_. It is unforgiving and hard, it doesn’t believe in niceties or the word "please", and it’s about a hundred and ninety five centimeters of incredibly handsome man. The voice in his ear is made rough with vindication, growling something halfway between a threat and a promise, a compliment and a curse, praise and poison. Justice is well on the way to making him forget how to _breathe_.

Head empty, indeed. Thoughts stolen, words gone, nothing is left in Aamir but a single, smoldering idea that almost makes him come undone right then:

If this is the punishment for thieving, he might just need to get caught more often.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have context, but I'm not sharing.


	7. Education

Teaching isn’t Aamir’s strong suit, and he admits that freely, although he doesn’t consider himself a poor teacher by any stretch of the imagination. Unfortunately, he thinks perhaps he’s failed at reinforcing the bottom line with his student, who has grown far too confident of a newfound prowess in bed and is becoming… distastefully unruly. Defiant, overly cocksure for someone of nouveaux skill, and beginning to fall into the assumption he had initially placed upon the spitfire. The boy’s plateauing, and the last thing Aamir needs is yet another depressing bedfellow.

Bad instructor though he may be, his entire career relies on the manipulation of others, and to let such a valuable learning experience be lost would reflect rather poorly on his reputation. Luckily, the solution is not only simple, but vastly entertaining:

He needs to make an introduction.

It couldn’t be just anyone; if a student is going to learn and learn well, the only option is a master. To be precise, Aamir needed a master of respect, someone who understood what it is to both give and receive and who wouldn’t balk at the idea of a “private lesson”. Unfortunately, that person needed quite a bit of convincing...

...but to say it was worth everything would be a  _ criminal understatement _ . The look on his pupil’s face as the hunter is bent forward to provide the perfect view is worth its weight in gold.

They leave the spitfire bound in a chair--can’t have him interfering, nor getting distracted from the scene in front of him, but close enough to make sure he’s really paying attention. While it took a little precarious placement to balance over his lap, certainly the show they make is as captivating to watch as it feels to perform. Aamir knew his hunter would make just the right faces, just the right sounds to drive the lesson home.

Obedience and relinquishing of control. Giving over to a partner and letting go of pride and refusing indignity in the joy of subservience. Adoration must be earned, yes, but it is earned simply through respect. 

Well. Respect and a leather leash. 

Of course, blonde hair against a black collar is rather fetching. Given the way his student squirms, eyes dark and staring at the hunter with poorly restrained enthusiasm, Aamir would dare to say the lad agrees.

Lucky him, the hunter brought a spare… just in case, of course.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am the god of context. And I say FAMINE.


	8. Empty

There is no giving without taking, no sharing without missing your losses. It’s the kind of lesson you learn faster with scars.

Back when he was young and still thought the world was worth saving, he had a nasty habit of working himself to the bone and taking less pay. An impoverished family needing fake visas to flee their country, a whistleblower on the run for saving thousands looking for a way out, desperate families seeking a missing child--the world was full of good causes, and naturally the ends justify the means, he would tell himself through sleepless nights.

There are those who call their significant others their “rock”. Nora was more of a crowbar. She pried him off and away when he worked too hard and gave him a wallop if he tried to resist.

Oh, his Nora. “You cannot pour from an empty cup, Aamir,” she’d told him, hands still soft from washing away the day’s paints. She would massage his stiff fingers, pushing the pad of her thumb into his palm, all the while scolding, “We can only give as much as we receive.”

“And what if all I need is you?” he’d asked around a churlish smile.

She laughed, and kissed him, and took him to bed.

The bed under him now is cool to the touch, the cheap cotton sheets not having been occupied for long. Tools lay silent on the table, the lights were off, and the blinds were drawn. He’d tried to push himself again--fix something, make something, do _something_! But he was tired. Unmotivated. An empty cup.

She would have been another year older two days ago.

Hyperaware in the quiet, he’s sat himself on the bed like a broken toy, unsure what exactly to do. Every breath he takes feels too heavy in his chest. It had been a long time since he’d wept over them, his family, and so the tears aren’t quite there, but that same sorrow made its home in his gut. In stagnation, he feels like he is rotting from the inside, and the bits of him that are no longer flesh sting against the seams of his skin.

His fingers curl into the sheets. They’re still cold.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Error 404: context not found


	9. Unfair

He takes.

Isn’t that all he knows anymore?

He takes the captain when he comes knocking in the odd hours of the night, face drawn and somber and palms cupped in asking. He takes the hotshot and the hunter, saying nothing when they enter in hand in hand with each other, saying nothing when their happiness makes something ugly in him roil. He takes the empress and her hunger, offers up the banquet in exchange for the spark of passion he can’t make on his own. He takes the swede and the exquisite burn of hatred in every bruise and stolen servo. He takes the snake, takes her grand secret of warm blood and the space she makes for his own grief.

In all of them he takes the scraps, and he tries to piecemeal them into the shape of Nora.

Oh, goodness, of course he knows it isn’t _fair_. But fair won’t sustain him, fair won’t make peace with the devil outside his door. Aamir doesn’t want a fair trade--where’s the fun in that? No, he’s a rat and a thief, a scoundrel, a fifth ace up the sleeve. Sex isn’t fair, it’s a con, just like loving.

So he takes, creating the illusion of giving. Every single soul that lies in his bed is swindled with the grand mirage that he is remotely invested in what he can provide, when all he cares about is what he can steal. And even if he can’t have Nora, can’t rebuild her facsimile in that hollow space under his lungs, he sure as hell can fill the void with the lovers who come calling, who will never stop calling.

May his cup runneth over.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yeah


End file.
